|Dear Mary and Catherine,|
|I need to move but these pictures won’t let me.
My body’s in trouble.
Who am I writing to?
|Do those stares meet mine?
Are we sharing an impossible truce?
Is one of us not in exile (at any time and place)?
of not loving
of loving and not you
of being loved and not by you
of knowing not knowing pretending
|There’s no nostalgia in this letter.
Nothing’s fleeting here.
Each of us is forever (unrepresentable).
We’re like songs or skits.
|I want to feel what these pictures deny me.
When my body’s in trouble, in trouble, in trouble, who?
Who do I write to?
|Are both of you static as I shiver involuntarily?
Do your thoughts have to end before I start to think?
Is everyone always unknowingly together?
|I and all the others that will love you
if they love you
|unless they love you|
|Who am I writing to?|